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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28815183">Pedantic</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewebie/pseuds/Ewebie'>Ewebie</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Guess My Race Is Run [18]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>All the smut has to happen in your imaginations, Greg fights dirty, I don't know who to blame except the entire MRC, Just a friendly game night at home, M/M, Mycroft loves himself some semantics, The chess is actually just foreplay, threats of drunken gameplay</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 11:14:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,779</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28815183</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewebie/pseuds/Ewebie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Pedantic</b>: /pɪˈdantɪk/ <i>adj</i> - excessively concerned with minor details or rules; overscrupulous.</p>
<p>Mycroft likes to win and is a stickler for the rules. Greg doesn't like to lose and knows that all rules are more like guidelines.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Guess My Race Is Run [18]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/877377</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>130</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Pedantic</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thank you to Narf (the Soup Dragon) for the quick, on-demand beta work.</p>
<p>Special props to the crew in the MRC that made this happen... Topi, Sky, Jack, Hippo, Mrs. C, and Yves - I blame you.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Greg sighed and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “Really?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I believe you suggested that we have a drink and play a game.” Mycroft lifted a brow, holding out a generous glass of scotch. “Does this not meet the conditions you outlined?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He huffed; Mycroft wasn’t wrong per se, just… irritating. Being persnickety on purpose. “You know what I meant.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It seems I did not.” Mycroft smoothly tilted the glass back and forth until Greg took it from him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s assumed that both parties stand a chance of </span>
  <em>
    <span>winning</span>
  </em>
  <span> the game.” And that it was supposed to be fun was left unsaid.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft settled gracefully in the wingback chair opposite him. “Is it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He didn’t groan, but it was a near thing. “Connotation and denotation, Myc.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then here’s to the letter of the law.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That time Greg did groan, but he lifted his glass in a return salute nonetheless. Chess. It had to be chess.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You are familiar with the rules?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m not an idiot; I know how to play.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“In which case, why would you assume you haven’t the potential to win?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Both of his brows shot towards his hairline. “Why don’t I--” he twisted his hand around his glass to point at himself, “--think I can beat you, the embodiment of the British government? No, don’t even start...” He gestured at the elegant board, “beat you at chess?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg felt his mouth drop open for a moment. “Are you… drunk?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Not presently.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Am I?” He eyed the scotch, then took a generous sip.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We could select a different game.” Mycroft smirked at him over the rim of his glass. Smirked! The prat. “Poker, perhaps.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, fuck off.” Greg hadn’t forgotten watching Mycroft at last year’s Charity Gala absolutely destroying a number of high ranking bureaucrats over Texas Hold ‘Em. “You card count,” he muttered.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Monopoly?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No thanks.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What about Guess Who?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg rubbed a hand over his face. “I know you don’t have Guess Who. And I am absolutely not playing Cluedo with you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, that is appallingly unfair.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s not,” Greg grumbled. “Your brother--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Lumping me in the same category as my errant brother is unbelievably cruel.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You would take one look at me and deduce that I was holding the ‘Gus’ card.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Then what do you suggest?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg heaved a sigh. “A drink and a game… It’s… It’s basically Netflix and chill. We could have scotch and play Snakes and Ladders. Or… Truth or Dare. Or strip charades.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Strip charades?” Mycroft grinned.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s what you’re taking away from this?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t actually own a Snakes and Ladders.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg laughed. “Of course not.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So.” Greg eyed the board. “How do we make this fair? You start with half the pieces?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Absolutely not.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right. What if…” Greg smoothed a thumb along his lower lip. “What if you have to predict the number of moves it’ll take to beat me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“From scratch? Impossible.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A slow grin spread across his face. “Impossible?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft hummed. “Your opening gambit. Then I give you the number of moves.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg narrowed his eyes. That might be fair. It might be a disaster too. “And if I beat the spread?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The spread?” Mycroft tisked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You know what I mean.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If you manage to make more moves than I predict necessary for checkmate, then I shall allow you to choose the game next time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“On the day that it’s my turn anyway?” He snorted. “Nice try.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I shall let you choose the game,” Mycroft repeated wryly, “without objection.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg thought about it, gave it the consideration it deserved. Thoughts of beer and pizza and naked Twister were… tempting. “And if I can’t?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If you cannot ‘beat the spread’?” Mycroft took a pointed sip of his drink.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg heaved a sigh.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“If I am able to make checkmate in fewer moves than I predict necessary, then I am allowed to select your wardrobe for dinner next week.” The corner of his mouth pulled up. “And we play billiards at my club afterwards.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I get to choose dinner and the game,” Greg countered. “And,” he held up a finger. “And you have to take a proper sip of scotch for each move you make.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It is a nice scotch.” Mycroft hummed, internally weighing the risk. “Agreed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg stuck out his hand. “Gentleman’s wager.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft smirked, shook his hand, and stood to refill his drink. “Whenever you’re ready.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg squinted at the board. He’d played chess before. Not terribly frequently. And not with any particular amount of skill. He knew there were a ridiculous number of opening moves. He knew they all had names, and they all had implications, and he knew exactly zero of those. After careful deliberation, Greg moved one of his pawns, sat back in his chair, and watched Mycroft closely.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He didn’t sit immediately, which made Greg even more wary. Instead, Mycroft circled the board and chairs, Greg included, in a slow, singular revolution. When he reached his seat again, he placed a hand on the back of the wingback and smiled. “Twelve.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ouch.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft hummed. “Indeed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Twelve moves. Greg had to survive twelve moves against one of the greatest strategic minds of his generation. A mind that had already consumed three fingers of scotch. And would have to keep drinking… And Greg felt that small epiphany moment light up his entire face. Now he had a plan. It wasn’t exactly sportsman-like, but neither was forcing him to play chess. He gestured at the board. “Your move.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft considered the board, considered Greg, moved one of his pawns and made himself comfortable in his chair. Greg raised a brow at his glass and waited until Mycroft drank. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eleven,” he smiled at Greg.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right.” Greg moved another pawn. Then another, then another, and another.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In less than five minutes, he’d lost four pieces and Mycroft murmured, “five.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Time to take it seriously. Time to come up with a strategy. He rubbed his chin and started planning again. He was willing to lose any number of pieces. And now that Myc was well onto his fourth glass of Scotch, his cheeks dusted pink, time was on Greg’s side. He just had to stall, delay the inevitable. Allow the liquor to soak in and even the field, so to speak. Right. He chewed on his lower lip.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You are certainly considering this next move more carefully than the last.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg huffed. “You’re the one that keeps saying I’m too impulsive.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Brash. I said you were brash.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You just didn’t like what I was doing.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It was illogical,” Mycroft frowned at him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg rested his elbows on his thighs and leaned forward, tilting his head playfully to the side. “Maybe that’s the point.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The point? The point of chess is to force concession or checkmate your opponent.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But that’s not exactly the game we’re playing here.” He tried not to smile, but in attempting to bite it back, the amusement shone through in his eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He could pick out the moment Mycroft realised what was happening, the dawning realisation bringing a new flush to his cheeks. “Gregory Lestrade. Are you trying to get me drunk?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think I might actually be succeeding.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of all the underhanded…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg tucked his tongue into his cheek and finally moved another piece. “To the letter of the law, Myc.” He lifted his original glass of scotch and took a sip.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Whether showing his hand had prompted Mycroft to more diligently examine the board, or if it was the slowly dropping number of moves simply didn’t matter. The longer it took Mycroft to pick his strategy, the more inebriated he became. It was a perfect catch-22. More than anything, it seemed to make him more irrational, which Greg found increasingly hilarious.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Two!” Mycroft snapped, awkwardly rising to refill his glass. “This is the most ungentlemanly behaviour.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg might have been insulted if it weren’t for the slight slur in Mycroft’s speech. “Roguish.” He was pretty sure he had this thing beat. Pretty sure. He studied the board carefully, trying to take in every piece, every option. Mycroft could probably do it with his eyes closed, even half blitzed on scotch. He chewed his lower lip.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You are simply delaying the inenviable… intenable… in…” Mycroft’s face scrunched.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Inevitable?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yesss.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t think it is, Myc.” He moved, wincing slightly at the indecision.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“HA!” Mycroft moved his knight, downed a shot. “One. Check!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He seemed too pleased about that. “Right.” Greg sacrificed the bishop. “Un check.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Un…” Mycroft huffed, took the bishop with his rook. “Checkmate.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg grinned. “Wonderful.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wo-what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That was twelve.” Greg sat back and rested his hands on his stomach.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes. Exactly.” Mycroft jabbed a finger at him. “Twelve moves. I got you in checkmate in twelve moves.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft stared at him incredulously. “So… You lose.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You lose,” Greg smiled.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wh-no. No, no. We agreed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You said,” Greg paused to be sure he had the words exactly right. “You said if you were able to make checkmate in fewer moves than predicted necessary…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I…” He frowned. “I… did say that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Which you were unable to do.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But then…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg sighed and shook his head. He pushed up and out of his chair, making his way around the table and stopping in front of Mycroft. He plucked the nearly empty glass from his hand and set it out of harm’s way, then planted a hand on either arm of the chair and leaned in close. “Then, you have to decide. Either we both lose. Or we both win.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mycroft pouted. “You do not play fair.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg laughed. “Fair is subjective.” He patted Mycroft’s knee, forcing him to uncross his legs, and settled comfortably on the exposed lap. “Whatta ya say? Both or neither?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t like to lose.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mmn.” Greg dipped down, nipping at Mycroft’s lower lip.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Cheating… You’re cheating.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He tucked his knees in tight around Mycroft’s hips, running his nose along his jaw. “It’s not cheating. It’s semantics.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Win,” Mycroft sighed as Greg closed teeth around his earlobe. “Both. Win.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good call.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I can’t wait to see you in that three piece suit I bought you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg groaned against Mycroft’s neck. “Those trousers are too snug.” He yelped as Mycroft grabbed his arse with both hands and squeezed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They fit perfectly. And I’ll get to watch you bend over for every shot.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Gonna be fun having pizza and beer in my posh clothes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We can order in at the Club.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greg leaned back, beaming at the already mussed picture his husband painted. “Do you want to play naked Twister there or here, then?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Gregory!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Here,” Greg grinned. “Clean up will be easier.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I married a deviant.”</span>
</p>
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